


Don't You Go

by ElDiablito_SF



Series: Don't [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, Mark of Cain, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 21:33:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1484866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElDiablito_SF/pseuds/ElDiablito_SF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts with the cries of the Angels.  Dean is Hell’s bitch again, certainly no servant of Heaven, and still, he can hear them, that doleful keen.  Their leader is dying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't You Go

**Author's Note:**

> This can be read as a stand-alone, or as a sequel to [ Don't Say a Word](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1166156).
> 
> Possible spoilers for 9x18 if you haven't seen it.

It starts with the cries of the Angels. Dean is Hell’s bitch again, certainly no servant of Heaven, and still, he can hear them, that doleful keen. Their leader is dying.

But angels don’t really die, do they? Dying implies decay, a natural process, _necrosis_ or whatever the call it. Once, he had asked Cas, “Where do angels go when they die?” And his angel just smiled and kissed his eyelids.

Now, Dean doesn’t care. The stench of death is all over him, all over everything. But there is a pulse that strums the strings of his veins, pulls him, like some Ariadne’s thread, towards the door of the motel room. _Christ_ , it’s not even warded! It’s as if the angels realize there is nothing to protect within those walls, nothing to save.

But Dean begs to differ.

He wraps his arms around Cas again, feeling the other man tighten in his embrace, recoiling against the Mark of Cain, feeling the way Cas can surely still feel it burn when it comes in contact with whatever is left of his Grace. His stolen Grace.

“You’re not dying,” Dean grunts into his angel’s neck and holds him closer.

 _I don’t do love… and love._ He had said this. And to Gadreel of all the entities in the universe.

“You won’t die. I won’t lose you.”

But Cas doesn’t need to speak. Even as he lays in that non-descript motel bed, limbs lax and soft, eyelids fluttering gently, he presses up into Dean’s embrace, he presses forgiveness into his soul with each kiss, as his lips land like butterflies all over Dean’s face, his chin, his eyes, his nose. His mouth. Kiss after kiss of promises Castiel can’t keep any longer. 

He’s dying, and Dean can feel it. It’s the surge of triumph over the divine that reverberates in his veins. The call of Hell in his blood. What he is holding in his arms is a celestial light, about to be snuffed out for good.

“Please. You’re the only part of me that’s still good,” Dean begs, fingers digging into Cas’ back ribs, leaving angry, red crescent moons on his all-too-human skin. _My angel._

“I’m trying,” Cas whispers, and Dean knows it’s true. He promised Dean he would always come for him. And he can’t come for Dean in Hell, can’t come and raise him from perdition again, if he’s dead.

_Where do angels go when they die?_

Castiel’s eyes are islands of ebony floating in an ivory lake. The darkness reflected in them is Dean’s own, and underneath, the all-consuming burn of another’s Grace, slowly destroying everything it touches.

“ _Please,_ ” Dean says again, the plea sounding desperate even to his own ears, and the mouth underneath his becomes a voracious furnace. Cas is fighting, fighting for Dean, fighting against the darkness inside him, with every breath.

 _You are worth fighting for_ his kisses say, even if his mouth is too busy to form actual words.

The dying angel rolls back and pulls Dean with him, on top of him, and Dean follows, the heat of Cas’ body like a beacon, a lighthouse in a turbulent sea.

“Don’t go. Don’t leave me.”

Dean isn’t even sure if he said it aloud. He isn’t sure of anything, except the pull of Castiel’s fingers on his clothes, the way the angel’s thighs fall open, the way they press around him again, the way they cling to Dean’s hips, while his heels dig into the back of Dean’s thighs. 

He’s inside Cas now, wondering at the ease of it, thanking his lover for using the last of his celestial powers to make this easy. To make _himself_ easy. Cas’ skin smells like coffee and cheap shampoo, but lips still taste like Heaven, like a place forever denied Dean, except _now_. 

_Now_ is when forever happens. The moment of pure bliss - and even purer agony - that he will take home with him. To Hell. 

Dean thrusts hard, hard enough to punish. He holds Cas’ head back by the hair above the curve of his neck, he pulls it enough to make that neck curve up towards his lips, so he can taste that too, the scent of sweat and the stars there. He presses his lips and his teeth to pulsepoint of the jugular and he thrusts again. So much in the world has been denied him, but not this. _This_ he can still have, and no one can take it from him now. Not Metatron, not Cain, not anyone. Everyone can just go fuck themselves in a dimension of their preference, Dean is staying right here, inside Cas, for as long as it takes to fix him.

Because Dean _will_ fix him. He doesn’t know how yet, but he can start with this.

The angel moans and whimpers underneath him, and pulls tighter, brings them closer, the ebony pools of desire that were once his eyes threatening to drown Dean if he doesn’t give him what he needs.

“Don’t stop.”

“No. Never.”

They come together again, flesh against flesh, bone against bone, the human ability to feel pleasure the only thing connecting them now. One Hell’s bitch, one former warrior of Heaven.

“Hang on,” Dean says, adjusting his angle and picking up his pace. He rides into Cas as if his cock was the First Blade and he intended to wield it to slay Death himself. “Here it comes,” he says, tongue lapping up the drops of his angel’s sweat as if it was ambrosia. “Take it. Take it all.”

And he does. There is a light in Castiel’s eyes again, a glimmer of hope, as he is pulled over the edge with Dean. He takes, and he gives, and he doesn’t say a word. Dean doesn’t _do love_ , but he is in it. In a sweaty, sticky puddle of it. With boneless limbs and panting breath, and the heat between their bodies that nothing can extinguish.

“Don’t you go,” Dean’s voice is nothing but a heated whisper against the back of Castiel’s earlobe.

Where do angels go when they sleep?

He wraps his arms around Cas, and lets his heart find a steady rhythm again as he concentrates on the angel’s breath. There is time still to save him, to save them both, as long as they both keep on breathing.


End file.
